


Homme Fatale

by lockedin221b



Series: Three's Company [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Caretaking, Collars, Come Shot, Facials, Leashes, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John knew his addiction to adrenaline was very real and very dangerous. He also knew it was better satisfied in his life with Sherlock than it had ever been in Afghanistan. But this? This had to be a whole new level of dangerous for him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>And damn if it didn’t feel fucking brilliant.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Homme Fatale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michi_thekiller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/michi_thekiller/gifts), [pounsygirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pounsygirl/gifts).



> For Michi and Zoe, you psycho little fucks. Hopefully this will be acceptable since I don't do really dark!Sherlock fics.
> 
> This was hilarious and fun to write. Thanks especially to Michi for giving me lots of suggestions.
> 
> NB: I'm not going to really be revising these stories before posting, but feel free to (politely) point out any errors.

John knew his addiction to adrenaline was very real and very dangerous. He also knew it was better satisfied in his life with Sherlock than it had ever been in Afghanistan. But this? This had to be a whole new level of dangerous for him.

And damn if it didn’t feel fucking brilliant.

He did have some limits: he would only allow Sherlock to tie his wrists, blindfold him, and spread the bar between his ankles. And he took precautions: this wouldn’t be taking place in anyone’s flat—they’d split the hotel room between the three of them—and his teeth would be securely around Jim’s cock, lest the psychopath tried anything they hadn’t all agreed to.

What exactly had he agreed to? Was the rush he felt every time he stepped out the door for a case no longer enough? Was he so desperate to be fucked?

Maybe. It wasn’t too late to back out, but it certainly was getting close.

John was jolted from his thoughts when a familiar hand caressed his scarred shoulder, and a pair of wet lips breathed hotly into his ear before whispering, “Say the word, we’re gone.”

It was endearing that Sherlock seemed more worried about this whole affair than John did—worried for him. Not that he would ever come off as worried to anyone who didn’t know him like John did. His tone, outwardly, sounded more annoyed than anything. It had for days, since they set this thing up. It was enough to bolster John. He turned his head, seeking blindly for those lips. Sherlock’s hand moved to the back of his head and guided him to his mouth.

“Do I get a snog?” Jim snickered from the foot of the bed.

John snorted and turned from Sherlock. “Keep dreaming.”

Sherlock kissed the back of his neck, and he felt the private smile there.

He let Sherlock move him into as comfortable a position as he was going to get, bound hands propping him up, before looping the wide strip of leather around his throat. He hooked one end of the leather leash to the back of the collar and led it carefully down his spine and over the cleft of his arse to the hook on the spreader bar. John raised his head and Sherlock tightened the slack in the leash.

John gave Jim the go-ahead with a simple, “Alright.”

Jim grabbed his chin with one hand, that one touch conveying all his eagerness.

But as soon as John felt the bare flesh of his prick brush his lips, he clamped his teeth down and turned his face away as much as the restraints would let him, which was not very much. He let out a hiss before growling, “Condom.”

“So boring, Johnny boy. I doubt you make daddy wear one.”

“Him, I trust.” And he did trust Sherlock. For the last year, ever since they’d first fallen into bed together after the incident at the pool, the only place Sherlock’s cock had been was John, and the only thing in his arse had been John and lab-sterilized toys. God knew where that psychopath’s prick went.

John heard the telltale crinkle of foil pass over him and suppressed a smile. Jim gave a disgustingly exaggerated sigh as he tore open the packet. When he took hold of John’s chin again, his grip was more bruising. John opened his mouth and took in the now-covered prick. Apparently Jim had worked himself erect while Sherlock was setting John up. There was no small amount of satisfaction—and maybe relief—in discovering that Jim felt significantly smaller than Sherlock. Then again, compared to the tall, lithe man and proportional dick John usually sucked off, that didn’t exactly mean Jim was below average.

He curled his toes to give Sherlock the OK. As he began working his tongue around Jim’s prick, adjusting to the feel of it in his mouth, he noted the pop of the lube cap, the squirt, the snap, and the shift on the mattress behind him. Sherlock would be proud that he managed to pay attention to all that while sucking off their archenemy.

Sherlock shifted the leash just to the side of his cleft, adding a little more tension that John was hardly going to complain about. His heart rate jumped at the pressure against his throat and he sucked hard on Jim, getting a groan in return.

A slick finger slid down John’s arse and across his entrance. Sherlock gave a teasing, twisting motion before pushing in, and John moaned. Jim bucked in his mouth, and John’s eyes watered at the unexpected, though thankfully shallow, thrust.

He clenched his arse around Sherlock’s finger when he was ready for the second, but it was going to be all up to Sherlock soon. John was quickly losing the ability to focus on anything but breathing through his nose. He blocked out whatever John was murmuring over him as his hand combed into his hair and gripped as best a handful as he could. The other hand was still gripping his chin.

Sherlock must have given him some silent warning, but John missed it, and he whimpered in surprise, pleasure, and a little discomfort when Sherlock began pressing his bare cock into him. For a moment, Jim was all but forgotten, and John let his mouth go slack as he tried to take in as much oxygen as he could.

He thought he heard Sherlock say, “Wait,” when Jim tried to close John’s mouth back around his cock. Jim loosened his grip and trailed a bored finger up and down John’s chin.

When he had regained enough awareness—of Jim’s cock in his mouth, of Sherlock’s cock up his arse, of his body tied and gagged—a new wave of adrenaline surged. He curled his toes and Sherlock leaned forward to kiss his scarred shoulder. That shift was enough to send a ripple of pleasure up and down his spine and into his own prick, which he realised was aching and leaking—all without a single touch.

Sherlock straightened up and gripped his hips. He must have given Jim a silent cue, because his hand gripped harder than it had yet and he thrust right down John’s throat, fingers pulling at John’s short hair.

With Jim’s second thrust came a perfectly timed buck from Sherlock. John couldn’t put a name to the sound that bubbled up from his throat, something between a whimper and a moan and more.

But after that first double-ended thrust, Sherlock matched Jim’s ins with his own outs. John’s eyes stung and he thought he could very well have a heart attack if this kept up much longer, and what a bloody ridiculous way to die. Ridiculous, maybe, but fantastic.

There were a few times he thought he heard voices, Jim saying things like, “Johnny boy, you dirty little pup,” followed by Sherlock telling him to shut up. But it could have been John’s mind filling in. He didn’t want to ask even if he could.

It didn’t take long before he was whining around Jim’s cock. Toe-curling was no longer a useful signal, and he and Sherlock had both foreseen that. He couldn’t even muster enough willpower to uncurl his toes. But it was Sherlock, and Sherlock always knew just what he needed and when.

He definitely heard Jim protest, breathlessly, “So soon?”

Sherlock, bless that man, ignored him. His long fingers wrapped around John’s prick at the base, pulled once—twice—and didn’t even make it through the third before John was screaming around the gag of Jim’s cock and coming harder than he had in a long time.

He had barely finished coming, with Sherlock squeezing him through every pulse, when Jim pulled abruptly out of his mouth. He gulped mouthful after mouthful of air, completely unaware of what Jim was doing until Sherlock was shouting and there was warm come splattered over his face.

“You. God. Damn. Fucking. Bastard.” Sherlock punctuated each word with a quick, shallow thrust, and ended his sentence trembling and coming inside John. He pulled out so fast it left John sore and empty and wanting. “Out,” he said, doing his best to shout in the breathless aftershock of orgasm.

“I can see why you keep him around,” Jim chuckled. “Such a good little cocksucker, daddy’s little pet.” John realised he still had one hand clamped tightly in his hair. He didn’t have the energy to fight it; he barely kept his head from falling forward and choking on the collar.

Sherlock unclipped the leash at the spreader bar. John slumped forward and rested his forehead on his bound hands as Sherlock’s weight left the bed. “Get out,” Sherlock seethed.

“Can’t I even dress first?”

“No.” There were some indiscernible noises, followed by Jim’s very recognisable laugh, before the door to the room opened and slammed shut.

The bathroom tap went on and off in the back of John’s mind, and then Sherlock’s nimble fingers were removing the blindfold, the collar and leash, the ropes, the spreader bar. John didn’t bother opening his eyes. Sherlock lifted him up into a slumped kneeling position and wiped his face clean with a damn flannel.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he rubbed a thumb under John’s eye. “I didn’t see him in time to stop him.”

“S’fine,” John slurred and leaned forward into Sherlock’s shoulder. He could taste semen, though. “Water? Two.”

“Of course.” Sherlock kissed his forehead, balanced him so he wouldn’t fall forward, and disappeared back to the loo. When he returned, he brought the first cup to John’s mouth and tipped slowly. John swished it as best he could with his tired, aching jaw and tongue and spit it back into the cup. Sherlock gave him the second to sip, but John’s couldn’t muster enough energy to lift his hands.

Once he’d had something to drink, and Sherlock had cleaned them both off, he managed to open his eyes. Sherlock was combing his fingers through his hair, watching him. “Hi,” John said with a weak smile.

Sherlock’s hand stilled and he cupped the side of his head. “Are you alright?”

John leaned into the palm. “Yeah. Need to lay down, though.”

Without a second thought, Sherlock picked him clear off the messed covers and laid him on the second, untouched bed beside it. John shifted onto his side and closed his eyes again while Sherlock moved the pillows around. When he settled in, it was with is back against a cushioned headboard and his legs on either side of John.

John looked long enough to move so that he could rest his head on Sherlock’s thigh and a hand on his calf.

“How was it?” Sherlock finally asked—the question had to have been nagging him. He resumed combing his fingers through John’s hair. His touch gave John the impression that he was trying to brush away any and all trace of Jim.

“Exhilarating,” John murmured. “But let’s just keep it to us from now on, yeah?”

Sherlock huffed, “I wasn’t keen on the whole idea to begin with.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock’s thigh. “Well, thanks for humouring me, love.”

“Anything,” Sherlock whispered as John began to drift off, still running his fingers through John’s hair. “As long as you’re safe.”


End file.
